


The Fence Asunder

by AeVelothi



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind
Genre: Ancestor Ghosts, Dunmer culture, F/M, Family Issues, Hurt/Comfort, Possession, Shady Clan Rituals, Vvardenfell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-29
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-29 23:15:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17212676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AeVelothi/pseuds/AeVelothi
Summary: Some clans will go to any length to profit from the wisdom of their ancestors.While most Dunmer families contact their closer dead for advice and training at the comfort of their Waiting Doors, the ambitious Andrethis have nominated a relative to serve as visiting-vessel for their most illustrious ancestor, in a controversial ritual calling into question their morals. Reynis Andrethi knows he has been bestowed a great honour, and that as ceremonial mouthpiece for Lord Ureval he can aid his family and their business in Vvardenfell...but is it worth the trauma, and the routine forfeit of his body?With his marriage to fourth cousin Felara on the horizon, and the prospect of adding children of his own to Ureval's line, Reynis' resolve begins to crack. But can a mer willingly sever himself from his own ghostfence, and doom himself to an existence unprotected by his forefathers?





	The Fence Asunder

They brought him forth, there in front of the ash pit, all watching with eyes agleam. Four generations of Andrethi Dunmer had gathered here in their ancestral tomb -- but not for him.

Reynis stood at the head of the gathering, ceremonial rings weighing in his ears, doing his utmost to appear as calm and dignified as was required of him. He had managed well, up until now, but in these past few years it had become harder and harder to not betray the terror he felt each time. Even descending the long staircase into the depths of Vvardenfell's hills elicited a horror in him, always in anticipation of this duty of his. It was a shame upon him, this cowardice, when for so long his father had repeated to him what an honour this was, how lucky a mer he had been to be chosen for this above his many cousins.

But in the depths of their ancestral tomb, Reynis had never felt less lucky. So many mer crowded together before the great steps up to the oldest ashpit rendered the air close and stuffy, and already his skin was gleaming with perspiration. It was like something from a lingering nightmare, hanging over him, hounding him, doing nothing to help his mind stay calm and prepared for what was to come.

"Hear us, exalted forefather," the ritemaster began in a ringing voice, casting silence upon the thirty-odd mer who watched and waited. "Your illustrious history brings us honour, and we would hear your guidance in these times of need. Once more we offer to you this vessel, flesh of your flesh, that you may walk among us at your leisure. By blood the divide shall be breached, and from eternal Necrom we call you."

Reynis moved forward, reluctant, heart already pounding in his chest. He had barely recovered from the last time; the aches had taken so long to fade from his limbs, and the dread had never really passed since then. A mer dead for thousands of years forgets how to work a body carefully.   
The ritemaster guided him to stand before the ashpit, as still and straight as he could, grey arms uplifted, the jewelry sliding up from his wrists. Would this be the day he had muscles torn loose from his very bones, by a spirit walking in a body after so long without one? He wished he could have had more time to prepare mentally for this, or that there was some way to delay what was about to happen. But Grand-Uncle Madran, a magister of great House Telvanni, was in attendance today, and his father wished to impress him with counsel from the very mouth of their ancestor. There he sat, furthest forward at the foot of the steps, arrayed in bonemold and all the ceremonial finery that could be hung, fitted or draped upon his robes.  
Reynis took another breath. At least Felara was there, too, somewhere. He hated for her to see him like this, but as his betrothed and his fourth cousin, her involvement with Andrethi ancestry would only grow from here. Maybe she would become accustomed to this, just as he so sincerely hoped he would too, with time. Saints knew it was taking him long enough.

"Ureval Andrethi, battlemage of the Four-Score War, you fought amongst Lord Vivec's troops to drive away the Reman army. At Ald Marak were you overcome, but your line of descent has preserved your remains, that you may be eternally honoured. We await you now, ever humble, ever faithful!"

Beneath the heavy cowl, Reynis shivered, the painted marks over his skin pinching and itching. The scent of burning trama was making him dizzy; before him the fragmented skull of Grandmaster Ureval stared endlessly into his soul from its exalted plinth in the ash heap. His bare feet curled on the sandstone floor as he felt the gathering of a presence around the old artifacts assembled in the pit, whispering in the air like the skeins of smoke that curled from the burners...and there, in those empty eye-sockets, an ethereal fire flashed to life.

Reynis screamed -- Father had warned him not to this time, but he couldn't stop it, not with the ice-fire of death surging through his every vein, filling his body as though his very blood had turned against him. There was a terrible sensation of being out of his body, out of control, cast adrift from his own self as something slid into his place. Visions of war, long-dead soldiers, and the distant shape of a gleaming god-king swarmed his head in disparate fragments, memories that were a part of his ancestry but not entirely his. Spectral flames trickled up his outstretched grey arms, caught in a rictus of torment, tendons pulled taut as he instinctively struggled against this invasion. But to struggle was to offend his great ancestor, to dishonour his immediately family --

With the greatest of efforts he allowed himself to succumb, defences dropping at last, surrendering to his fate, even as his physical body wanted him to flail and fight like a mer drowning. Before consciousness fell away from him, the last thing he glimpsed through fading, shifting vision was Felara's face as he finally spotted her in the crowd...and her crimson eyes, filled with abject horror.


End file.
